Madame Serpent (25 page)

delighted him. He knew all. De Chabot was her lover, and she was pleading for his life because she could not bear to be without him.

He joined in her laughter.

‘Dear Francis!’ she said. ‘I would that we could start our life again. I would that this was the first evening we met. Do you remember?’

He remembered. There was no woman he had loved as he had loved Anne

d’Heilly. He was getting old and he had not long to live; and Anne saw, staring her in the face, a future at which she dared not look too closely.

She clung to him.

‘Francis― let us be happy.’

So much she given him; so much would she continue to give to him; and all she asked in return was complaisance and the life of her lover. So how could he, the most chivalrous of men, refuse to give her what she asked?

———————

All during the last months of that year there was uneasiness throughout the court. The old order was dying. People were wondering what changes would be made when the new king came to the throne.

Anne, having saved the life of her lover when Francis refused the duel

between him and de Vivonne to take place enjoyed a temporary respite. She knew it could not last. The King’s bouts of illness were growing more and more frequent, he did not care to stay in any place for more than a few days now. He hunted often, although he was too ill to enjoy the chase; but he always said that he would go, and if he was too old and sick to ride, he would be carried there.

Anne prayed daily for his health. The Reformed party watched uneasily while the Catholic party waited hopefully.

Catherine felt stimulated by the de Chabot affair, which she herself had

cunningly brought about. She felt that if she wished it, eventually she could make puppets of all these people about her while she herself was the puppet-master.

She longed for power. She would use all her cunning to achieve it. If the love of her husband and the affection of her children were denied to her, why should she not work for power?

She had learned to work in the shadows.

She watched the King growing weaker with each passing day. She was

tender to him, solicitous, showing great eagerness to serve. And she smiled, remembering that in her wisdom, she had made friends with Diane and, because of that deeply humiliating effort, she now had children, so that she need not, as poor Anne
d’Etampes
, fear the death of Francis. Those children, who had come to her out of her wisdom and her cunning, had given her the security for which she had once to plead with the King.

Up and down the country went the court at the bidding of its restless King.

A week at Blois; another at Amboise; to Loches; to Saint-Germain, and back to Les Tournelles and Fontainebleau. And then― on again.

———————

It was February and the court had travelled down to and come to rest at the Château of La Roche-Guyon. Here they would be forced to stay awhile, for the snow was falling incessantly and the sky was still heavy with it. Great fires were built up in the huge fireplaces; Anne, with Catherine and members of the
Petite
Bande
, put their heads together in order to devise some means of diverting the King from his gloom.

They planned masques and plays; there was dicing and cards; balls, when

the company planned extravagant fantastic fancy dresses. But the King would not be amused; he hated to be forced to stay in one place when he wished to go on, and the King’s mood, as always, was reflected in his courtiers. They stood about in melancholy groups, asking themselves and each other what they could possibly do to relieve the tedium. They were like fretful children, Catherine thought, with too many toys. As for herself, what did she care if the snow kept them prisoners here. Henry was here and Diane was here. It made no difference to her whether they were at Les Tournelles or Loches, Fontainebleau or La Roche-Guyon. She still had her hours of agony to endure when the Dauphin

was, as she knew full well, making love to Diane; she still had her moments of hope when ceremony demanded that he sit beside her or dance with her; there was still the bittersweet hour when he dutifully came to her apartments. And to set beside jealousy, there was always hope; and neither of these altered by place or time.

The snow was piling up high in the courtyards; it lay along the castle walls.

Never had the old château seemed so gloomy, and the King was growing more and more irritable, bursting into sudden temper over matters which would once have called forth nothing but a grunt of amusement.

It was midday and they had just eaten heavily; the old were drowsy; the

young were fidgety. Why, asked one young nobleman of the Count d’Enghien, could not the King go to his chamber and sleep, or perhaps take a beautiful girl to keep him company― two beautiful girls? He had but to tender the invitation.

The Count replied sadly that the King was not the man he had been.

‘Come here, Catherine, my dear,’ said Francis, ‘and sit beside think of some game we might play to relieve this tedium? Of all my châteaux, I think that after this I shall hate La Roche-Guyon most.’

Catherine looked at Anne, who. was sitting on the other side of the King’s chair. Anne lifted her shoulders; she was listless. The King looked very ill today.

‘There is nothing, Sire, but to watch the snow and be glad that we are in this warm château and not out there in the cold,’ said Catherine.

‘The child would bid me count my blessings!’ said the King. ‘Why, in the

days of my youth we had some good fights in the snow.’

‘Sire, let there be a fight now!’ cried Catherine.

‘Alas! I am old to join in it.’

‘It is pleasanter to look on at a fight than to take part in it,’ said Anne,

‘come, you slothful people. The King commands you to fight― to take up arms against each other―’

‘Armfuls of snow!’ cried Catherine. ‘A mock battle! It will be amusing.’

Francis with Catherine, Anne, Diane, and other ladies and some of the older men, ranged themselves about the while the young men rushed out to the

courtyards.

Catherine, watching the fight, smiled to herself. Even in a game, it seemed, there must be two parties. D’Enghien was the leader of the Reformed party; d’Enghien for the King and Anne. For the Catholic party and Diane― and

Henry of course, and with him the dashing and imperious Francis de Guise. It was the latter who concentrated his shower of snow on the Count. Henry, as Dauphin, must necessarily keep aloof. The two young men, de Guise and

d’Enghien, were heroes of the fight. Diane was watching them closely; and Catherine watched Diane.

‘Bravo, Count!’ cried the King when his favourite scored a neat hit.

‘And bravo, de Guise!’ Diane was bold enough to shout when that

handsome fellow threw his snowballs with accuracy.

Even there, in the group surrounding the King, there was evidence of the

two parties. Only one person kept silent― the wise one; she who was content to be thought meek and humble and in reality was more cunning than any.

Catholic against Protestant, thought Catherine. The
d’Etampes
party against Diane’s party. De Vivonne against de Chabot. The fools, thought Catherine, to take sides in somebody else’s quarrel. The wise worked for themselves.

The King noticed the silence of his daughter-in.law and drawing her to him, whispered: ‘Why, Catherine, who you favour― my charming Count or that

handsome rogue de Guise?’

‘I favour the winner, Sire,’ said Catherine, ‘for he will be the better man.’

Francis held her wrist and looked into her eyes. ‘Methinks there is great wisdom behind these charming dark eyes. I say, let them fight this out with snowballs― fit weapons for such a quarrel.’

The fight went on. It was too amusing to be stopped. Even the King forgot his melancholy.

Catherine laughed aloud to see dashing de Guise sprawling in the snow; and when Diane turned cold eyes upon her, she laughed equally loudly to see to young d’Enghien go headfirst into a snowdrift. Catherine’s eyes met those of Henry’s mistress, and Diane smiled.

You suppose Diane,
thought Catherine,
that I am of no account.
I
am too
humble to take part in your petty quarrels. To a simpleton such as I am, this is
but a snow-fight― nothing more.

Diane said: ‘Good fun, this snow-fight, is it not, Madame?’

‘Most excellent fun,’ replied Catherine.

And she thought: nothing is forgiven.
Every pin-prick, every small

humiliation is noted; and one day you will be asked to pay for them all,
Sénéchale.

The battle had taken on a new turn. One man found a stone and threw it;

another discovered a goblet which had been left in the courtyard and aimed it at the head of a man in the opposing party. The first blood was then shed. It brought laughter and applause from the onlookers.

Now, some of the fighters had come inside the castle and were throwing

cushions at one another. The King and the watchers were so overcome with

laughter that they encouraged the fight to grow wilder and wilder.

A stool came crashing through a window; it was followed by others.

‘Come!’ said Francis. ‘Attack, men!’

Catherine noticed Francis de Guise disappear from the fight. She only knew that something significant was about to happen. If she could but slip away, send a command to one of her women to follow Monsieur de Guise!

All manner of articles were flying out of the windows now. A china bowl

splintered on the head of one young man, who staggered, looked startled and then fell unconscious on the

‘Carry in the wounded!’ cried Francis.

Even as he spoke, pots and pans were flying out of the windows, followed

by chairs and small tables.

The King roared with laughter.

‘What a merry turn to a snow battle!’ cried Anne.

And the comedy was suddenly turned to tragedy. Catherine need no longer

wonder as to the disappearance of Monsieur de Guise.

Suddenly, crashing down from an upper window came a heavy chest.

The Count was standing immediately beneath the window from which it fell.

There was a warning shout of horror which the King joined, but it was too late.

D’Enghien, startled, looked up, but he could not escape in time. The chest fell on top of him; and his blood gushed startlingly red over the whiteness of the snow.

———————

That sad year sped by quickly for the King of France. There seemed little left to live for.

‘I have but to love, and misfortune overtakes my loved ones!’ he said.

‘When I love my son Francis, he died suddenly and mysteriously. My beloved Charles was a victim of the plague. And this handsome boy, who in some small measure took their place in my heart, has been cruelly done to death in a sham battle.’

He sought to forget his grief in gaiety. There was a long meandering from castle to castle. The tempo must be speeded up; there must be richer food at his tables; stronger wine-flow; the women surrounding him must be more beautiful; the morals of his court the more depraved. His dress was more extravagantly jewelled. The sparkle of diamonds must make up for the lack-lustre of his eyes, the red of rubies for the pallor which had touched his face. Wit and wine, women and love, music and poetry― they must be his to enjoy. His must still be the most luxurious and the most intellectual court in Europe.

It was February, exactly a year after the death of the Count; a cold and

snowy February to remind him of the tragedy.

The Court was at Saint-Germain-en-Laye; and at the head of his banqueting table, Francis sat― his Queen on his right, Anne on his left.

Catherine, in her place at the table, was thinking now would she change

places with the King of France. His day was fast ending and it was the turn of others to enjoy great power. Henry. Diane. And Catherine de’ Medici?

When the banquet was over and the company danced, Catherine assured

herself that hers would be the brightest destiny. She had learned to hide her light under a bushel until time came for her to show it; then should its brightness only dazzle, not only the men and women of France, but of all Europe.

Outside, the snow was falling fast; inside the castle, the heat was unbearable.

Bodices slipped from shoulders; eyes gleamed in torchlight. Anne sat beside the King and with her was Catherine. Neither cared to dance. Catherine, her hands meekly folded in her lap, knew that Henry was whispering to Diane as they sat among their friends and supporters; Catherine gave no sign that she as much as saw them. Anne was watching de Chabot with a red-headed beauty, and there was smouldering jealousy in her eyes; the King was aware of Anne’s jealousy. It gave Catherine a feeling of comfort to know that for once the his mistress were experiencing the same bitter emotion as she did herself. It gave her a feeling of satisfaction to realize that long endurance had taught her to hide her feelings far better than they could.

A messenger came while the dance was in progress. He craved the King’s

permission to speak, and on receiving it, he announced the death of the King of England.

Francis stared before him. ‘Dead!’ he said. ‘So he is dead then.’

He beckoned to an attendant and bid him look after the messenger and feed him well.

‘I had been expecting this,’ said Francis. ‘He has been long sick.’

‘The end of an old enemy,’ said Anne. ‘I wonder how he will face his Judge.

We must do a masque:
The King of England at the Judgment Seat
. What think you?’

But Francis was silent.

Anne pressed his hand and said: ‘This saddens you, my love.’

The King smiled. ‘We were of an age,’ he said. ‘My old friend; my old

enemy. He has gone whither I shortly must follow.’

Catherine said: ‘I beg of you, Sire, say not so.’

‘There, my little one. Do not be distressed. It is something we must all come to, and I but happen to be a step or two nearer than you and Anne here.’